


kiss and tell

by Amber



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Blood Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Come Swallowing, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Do Not Archive, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Multiple Penetration, Implied/Referenced Necrophilia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Somnophilia, Kissing, Knife Play, M/M, Mind Control, Missing Scenes, Monsters Love Jonathan Sims, Other, individual chapter content warnings in the end notes, some chapters also contain the following tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-10
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-08-21 13:42:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16577597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amber/pseuds/Amber
Summary: Five times the Archivist kissed a monster, and one time he didn't.





	1. Mr. Spider

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fairbanks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairbanks/gifts).



> Thank you to my beta.
> 
> Standard disclaimer: Please don't link this to the creators. Please don't repost my fic on other websites. Transformative works or quotes with a link are fine and you don't need to tell me or ask permission (but I would love to know!)
> 
> Not all tags/content warnings apply to each chapter, and each chapter can stand alone, so I have included specificity in the end notes.

Thaddeus Rackham is a Professor Emeritus of Invertibrate Zoology at Oxford, or so he says when he invites Jon to tea. Jon isn't really much for social functions when he could be studying, but he's always had a bit of a side interest in arachnology, and this man found him through one of the Oxford newsgroups where Jon occasionally asks probing philosophical questions about the nature of paranormal phenomena. Those two things in conjunction mean of course he goes, regardless of what Georgie says about meeting up with strange men from the internet.

"Mr Sims. So glad you could come." The man is snappily dressed and has a rich timbre to his voice, the faintest trace of an accent that speaks of Africa — he's dark-skinned enough that Jon wonders if he's lived there, even if his name seems Anglicized. Africa comes up quite a bit in the research of the paranormal, but it's mostly good old fashioned Lovecraftian racism, British tourists claiming to have been cursed, appropriated voodoo traditions. But perhaps Jon isn't immune to certain biases himself — he finds something _disconcerting_ about Rackham. Something in the way he speaks, or moves— 

But he shakes off that strange feeling, ignores the dread in the pit of his gut. Paranoia and anxiety are both old acquaintances. Instead he asks about the pictures on the wall, scientific drawings of different spiders, and Rackham willingly elucidates. It becomes obvious that spiders are his passion — "But I did not invite you here to discuss spiders," he says with a hint of a smile.

Jon lifts his shoulders in a shrug. Spiders and the paranormal are intrinsically linked topics in his mind, but he doesn't want to have to explain why. "Yes. You wrote that you had been researching some incidents of houses burning down? Doesn't sound particularly supernatural to me."

"No, it wouldn't," agrees Rackham. "I don't know if I would say they are supernatural incidences themselves. But I believe they were the work of a cult that had some roots in the Oxford area, one that worshipped the idea of certain paranormal forces in our world."

Jon scoffs at the word worship, but he can't deny he's interested. "A cult. Christ."

"Look here." Rackham has a scrapbook of newspaper clippings of arson, among other things, and Jon flicks dutifully through it, more aware of how close he and Rackham are now sitting, though certain aspects do start to catch his interest and soon enough he's beginning to see the same patterns that Rackham must have, poring over a coroner's report interestedly. "Have you heard of the Magnus Institute?"

"Heard of it, yes," says Jon, looking up from his reading. 

"They do a much better job of keeping track of this sort of thing — if you went there to research some of these incidents you might make some interesting discoveries indeed. Unfortunately I simply cannot justify traveling into London for what is simply a side hobby, if that."

"Thank you, I'll keep it in mind," says Jon. 

"I'm very glad you came to me first, however," says Rackham, and the way he smiles makes something lurch a little in Jon. "I so rarely get to speak about this sort of thing."

"Er. Thank you," he says again foolishly, even though — what is he thanking the man for? It's just, nobody really pays Jon much mind ever, which is how he likes it, but there's something about this compelling older man's attention that is making him feel all flattered and pleased. "I ah. Well. You're quite interesting company, I'll grant you that much."

"And I have collected many interesting stories. Look here, at this one." He flicks Jon forward a few pages, their hands brushing. Jon is getting a little flustered, but the hand-written letter folded between those thick pages captivates him quickly, and he finds himself drawn in to reading the tale. He barely notices the way Rackham's hand rubs up and down the line of his back over his vest, except to register that it's pleasant.

Normally, Jon would be uncomfortable right about now. There is a certain expectancy in this touch that he has no interest in, even if on its own he's quite enjoying it. But he can't seem to pull away from the tale in the letter, stop reading long enough to say or do something, and moreover the longer he reads the more a placidity overtakes him. Smothering his anxiety and the bluster he uses to cover it.

When the warm hand grips the back of his neck, Jon doesn't stir or protest, but he's becoming as aware of this touch as he is the words on the paper. 

When Rackham's other hand presses lightly over his thigh, through the thin material of his slacks, Jon shivers.

"Jonathan," the man says, "It has been such a delight to meet you."

And then he kisses him.

Jon does not remember the kiss. Or perhaps his mind simply protects him from it later; the fuzz of a moustache unpleasant when joined by the wiggling protrusion of pedapalps. The sensation of bristles over his skin. His mind flooded with warmth and hunger. It is his first kiss with another man, though not his first kiss entirely, and he finds it intoxicating.

There are too many hands touching him, too many hands. His skin is prickling like something is brushing just above his skin. He makes a smothered noise — protest? Enjoyment? Even he doesn't know. 

But cutting through that is the need to finish the letter. When he wrenches his mouth away, he turns his eyes back to it immediately, the old paper crumpled a little in his sweaty hand.

Rackham makes a sound like disappointment. "You really will enjoy the Magnus Institute, I think," he says regretfully, and separates himself entirely from Jon. "Cup of tea for the road?"

"Oh, thank you, yes," murmurs Jon absently. He reaches the end of the letter and puts it down, gives Rackham a brief pink-cheeked smile, watching him pour the tea. Had they been having tea? When did he have his first cup? Surely he would have remembered such lovely china. Abruptly Jon feels a little dazed. "Actually," he says, touching the back of Rackham's hand to get his attention. The man looks over at him with dark, dark eyes. "Actually, I had better go, I think. Email me, would you. Perhaps we can do this again."

"Perhaps," Rackham says, considering him. Jon is still intrigued, but more uneasy than ever, and when he makes his goodbyes and stumbles blinking out into the outside world he finds himself not entirely sure what just happened. Not an unfamiliar sensation (legs, so many reaching legs, the sharp inhale before a scream, the door shutting sharply) but he shakes it off. Lets any confusing shards of memory sink like silt to the bottom of his mind.

One thing remains, though, one piece of advice. The Magnus Institute, London.


	2. Jude Perry

"What, the handshake wasn't enough for you?" Jude scoffs, approaching him. She shouldn't be able to get close — none of them can ever get close, even when Jon is standing right alongside them and watching their destruction — but she waltzes right up to him brashly.

"You stay away from me," she says, and she isn't speaking to him so much as through him, past him, even though she's looking him in the eye.

Jon doesn't respond. Begging, threats, he's heard them all. Jon never responds.

She leans in close and kisses him. The burning wax of her mouth closing over his own. It is nothing less than a punch to the face, her kiss, but she does it without hesitation, and Jon can feel his lips cracking and curling, his gums pulling back to expose his teeth, his tongue blistering as her own demands entrance to his mouth. She cradles his head between her palms and kisses molten fire through him, until it feels like it's his own face simply melting away, dripping and distorted.

He wakes up gasping, sweaty, sore-mouthed. Touches shaking fingers to his tingling lips.

He doesn't dream of Jude Perry again.


	3. Nikola Orsinov

"I'm _bored_ ," Nikola pouts, and Jon closes his eyes and shivers, even though it's always unnaturally warm in the wax museum. Nikola is bored easily and often, and it never means anything good for those around her — particularly not her pet Archivist, strapped naked into the chair. 

"I know," she says, and there she is, right by him, and Jon opens his eyes again because she doesn't like them to be closed. "Let's play a game."

He looks at her flatly. At the blank grotesquely of her form — the put together pieces of human and plastic, the terrifying euclidean wrongness of her jigsaw face. It gives him a headache, this unknowable entity, and he thinks that's why she likes to leave his eyes unbound. Sometimes they ungag him, too — once he compelled a horrific tale out of either Breekon or Hope, one he'd rather not think of ever again — but right now the cloth is thick in his mouth and he cannot respond. 

Presumably his expression speaks for him, because she tuts, and runs the jagged edge of the mockery of fingers across his cheekbone. "Oh, come now, Archivist. There's no need to be like that! I'm simply proposing we find a way to pass the time while we wait for you to be _ready_." Her touch skips over the gag and down the line of his neck to his collarbone, somewhat protrudent given they rarely remember to feed him. "Oh, your skin is coming along wonderfully."

Jon makes a helpless, hopeless noise of disgust — it won't do anything but irritate her, but he refuses to give in to simple acceptance. On this occasion though, Nikola, ever mercurial, just laughs. "Yes, your death and defeat will be _very_ soon, Archivist. I do so look forward to watching." She scratches lightly across his chest, and then back up to his chin, tipping it upwards. She bends like a tree in the wind, more curve in her jointed body than a human spine would allow, and the blank plastic where her eyes should be stare out at him from behind the skin of her mask. She's very close, and Jon can't help the way his breathing's picked up, pulse thudding with fear.

"Now then, Archivist. What sort of game shall we play? What about the one where I see how far your arms stretch?" she suggests. Jon makes it immediately clear how much he hates that particular game, and Nikola giggles. "No? Hm. What about the one where I make all those silly organs fill your body up with chemicals?"

Her other hand drops between his legs, and Jon closes his eyes in dread. The _please no_ is almost distinct even with the gag. He hates it when it makes him come, even if Nikola is always fascinated by the complex workings of his body when he does. Even if he feels a moment of peace, after, the sweet relief of pleasure that wipes out everything else. Maybe because of that.

"Eyes open," it snaps, and he opens his eyes because the alternative is pain.

"Hmm," Nikola says, tapping its thumb against his mouth over the gag. "What about the one where we see how much your holes can take?"

Jon shakes his head against her grip, begging again. At least the orgasms, violating as they were, had been a relief. But Nikola didn't fill him up to stimulate him, didn't use the right kind of things for that. She'd put whatever she felt like in his ass, his mouth, his nose, random objects or substances just to see what she could fit there, what would upset him the most. 

"No? None of those? Oh Archivist, you're no fun at all," she purrs. "What game would you like to play?"

She plucks the gag from his mouth. Jon pants, trying to work the ache from his jaw, but she squeezes it in sharp reminder of where she wants his attention. "Well? I _asked_ you a question, Archivist." 

"I," he manages, and the urge to just swear at her until she gagged him again was strong, but he tries to be smarter than that, tries to think. "Hide and- hide and seek."

Nikola laughs, chillingly delighted. "Silly Archivist. We're playing that right now with your Elias! But he'll simply never find us." She's in his lap suddenly, all sharp edges and the sick smell of rotting flesh. "Pick. Again."

"Seven minutes in heaven," Jon gasps out, grasping at straws, saying the first innocent game that comes into his scattered, hungry mind. Not that seven minutes in heaven is particularly innocent, but at least whatever she does it will only be for that requisite seven minutes. He thinks. He hopes. He hasn't ever actually played before, and he wouldn't put it past Nikola to ignore the rules however she wanted.

"In heaven," Nikola is echoing, slow and doubtful. She gives him a sly look, face-that-isn't twisting unpleasantly. "What about seven minutes in the coffin instead?"

"You asked me what I wanted to play," Jon points out, calm at odds with the way his heart is still wild in his chest.

"Hm. Well. All right! But if it's not fun, I _will_ have to punish you."

Jon swallows. Nikola doesn't really seem to understand sex, and if he's being honest, he's not any better. He isn't sure that there is a way to make it fun for both of them. But perhaps he can manage... endurable levels of pain, to sate her relentless childish sadism.

"I'll need my hands free," he says, and she laughs.

"No," she corrects him. "You would _like_ your hands to be free. That's very different indeed."

"All right, yes, I'd like them to be free," Jon says angrily. 

Nikola seems to find this entertaining, at least. "And what are you going to do with them?"

Strangling her seems like it would be very gratifying in this moment, but not effective in practice and not an answer likely to get him free. "I er," he says, thinking hard. "I need to be able to give you a massage. That's how the game works." Banking on Nikola having no bloody idea how a teen party game works.

"Oh!" says Nikola brightly. "Well, I'm not going to untie you, but it's just about time for your lotioning, so I don't see why we can't play anyway. _I'll_ massage _you_ , Archivist."

Disappointment sits heavy in Jon's stomach, but he nods stiffly. "Very well," he says. 

"And kissing?" Nikola prompts, still very close. "Isn't there supposed to be kissing?"

Damn it all, she knew the game after all. "Do you even know how to kiss someone?" he asks peevishly.

"Hm." Nikola tilts her head like a bird. "I am still getting used to having a mouth. I know! Why don't you teach me!"

Jon can feel heat suffusing his skin despite himself, blushing at the idea of kissing anyone, even Nikola. But it still seems better than the other alternatives she'd suggested, so he doesn't point out that he barely has enough experience to teach anyone. "All right," he says. "Lotion and kissing. For seven minutes." 

"Wonderful!" agrees Nikola, clapping her plastic hands. "Let's begin then, shall we?"


	4. Gerard Keay

When he gets back from America, Jon reads the page again. He waits until he's in his little townhouse, bare and barely inhabited, too new and ignored for him to truly call it home. But it's got the privacy he's wanted since Trevor and Julia sent him on his way. His hands tremble as he unfolds the fragile old paper.

The first thing Gerard Keay says to him is: "You fucking liar."

Jon exhales like a punch to the gut, even though he knows he deserves that. "Look," he starts, but Gerry cuts him off.

"I should have known you were too far gone to help. God forbid an Archivist get rid of a source of useful information, right?" he sneers, and Jon wonders if he was always this angry or if the pain of not dying just makes it particularly bad. 

"Gerard— Gerry." Jon tries to get him to listen, even if the use of the nickname only seems like it makes Gerard angrier. "Listen, _please_. I am going to burn your page."

"Oh, right, of course," says Gerard. "This is the last time, is it? One more question and then you'll definitely do it — and I'll have to take that bait, every time, because what's the alternative? Being stubborn and staying exactly like this?"

"No, no, I- I understand what you're saying, and that you feel betrayed. I didn't bring you back to ask you questions."

That stops Gerard, but it's obvious he doesn't quite believe Jon. "Yeah?"

"Yes. I. Well, it's complicated, really. At first, yes, I wanted to make sure that if Julia and Trevor realized what I'd done, I could, ah... give you back. Call it cowardice. However now that we are back in England I have every intention of ignoring those very same cowardly instincts that make me fear destroying the information you hold, so that I can follow through on your request."

Gerry looks at him sullenly, unimpressed. "But?"

"But." Jon exhales. Looks away from the gaze of a dead man. "But. I — I've never killed anybody before. And so I wanted to check. That you're sure, and that — I suppose, if there's anything you _want_ , anything you want to do or know— I could take you to your old bookshop if. If it would give you some closure." Gerard is still looking at him, but it's softened somewhat.

"You haven't done it," he says, slightly disbelieving, "Out of sentimentality. Wow, you really are nothing like Gertrude."

Jon huffs a little laugh, and takes a heavy seat on his couch. "I suppose it seems odd to you, given that was the first time I met you. But I — you're in a few statements. And I think. If I'm going to be perfectly honest. I think I admired you. Really making a difference against all the—" Jon waves a hand. "Nonsense."

"Nonsense you're part of," Gerard reminds him darkly, and Jon just nods, because he can't really deny it anymore. Until he truly outwits Elias he can't call himself anything but Beholding. But Gerard doesn't seem interested in condemnation, instead looking around the flat with an interested eye. "Where are we?"

"Oh, ah. My place," admits Jon.

"Really?" Gerry gives it a second look. "Huh. It's not very well protected." 

"It's not?" That spikes an icepick of fear through Jon. "I'm afraid I'm not... _au fait_ with. Protection... rituals, or the like."

"Well you'd better get _au fait_ ," Gerard says, giving the French Jon's stuffy accent. "You work in the middle of all the research into that kind of stuff, for god's sake."

Jon sighs. He's not exactly popular in the other departments, and he's not sure anybody outside the Archives is going to be helpful for real supernatural assistance anyway. Lord knows they haven't been up until now. But perhaps Gertrude has some notes somewhere. He gives a short nod. "Right. I'll keep that in mind."

"You live alone?" Gerard asks, starting to wander the flat. Reaching out to flip through Jon's vinyl collection before realizing he can't. Peering at the titles on his bookshelf.

"Yeah," Jon says. "I prefer it, really."

"Hm." Gerry turns back to him finally. "Do you. Well, I've had my closure, Archivist. Knew I was going to die, died. You filled me in on what I missed. And if I did have some sort of bucket list there's not much on it that I could do like this."

"Right," says Jon, tries not to look stricken.

"But I don't think this is about my closure. It's about yours." He crosses back to Jon, steps in close, rocking on the balls of his feet. "I quite like you too, you know. Just from our little chat. But I really need you to do this for me, Jon. If I thought there was a chance my mum was right and this page could bring me all the way back, maybe I'd have you doing that instead. But living like this, is just... it's just torture. It's not even living. And you're the only one who can stop it. So if you do think I'm all that and a bag of crisps, you've got to go through with it."

Jon realizes he's getting upset again, eyes stinging. "I do understand that," he says heavily. "It just. I know how much it's going to hurt. Not- not just- I don't think destroying information will be pleasant. But it's ... rare, that I meet anyone I can, that I..."

"Yeah," says Gerard. "You're lonely. That's why I'm here. I know." He lifts a hand and traces Jon's cheek, but Jon feels nothing. Then he touches Jon's mouth, and Jon feels nothing — well, he doesn't feel anything touching his lips. But his heartbeat picks up and he shivers as a confused cavalcade of emotions tumbles through him. Jon flushes, just slightly. "I think in another lifetime stuff could have been pretty interesting with us."

Jon exhales, and closes his eyes against what he can see in Gerry's expression, certain it's only making everything harder for him. "Yes," he agrees.

"But I need you to say goodbye now," Gerry says, just this side of firm, and Jon knows that's what he needed too, was why he couldn't quite make himself burn the page.

"Goodbye, Gerry," he says. Considers saying something else, something awfully trite, but even this circumstance isn't quite enough to prompt sentimentality of that measure. Besides. Gerry knows.

"Goodbye, Jon," says Gerry. "Thanks for being my friend, even if we didn't get long enough."

When Jon opens his eyes again and blinks away the hot tears, Gerard Keay is gone.


	5. Helen Richardson

## Helen Richardson.

They stay overnight at a little bed and breakfast. Daisy and Basira room together, which leaves Tim and Jon — which just leaves Jon. He'd expected that, of course. It could be Tim's very last night; no doubt even in the midst of the whirlwind of trauma that has caught him up he plans to find a more interesting way to spend that than sulking with his boss.

Jon, on the other hands, has no plans to make it interesting. He's restless, wants to go over the plan one more time but knows the others are already sick of him in that respect. Looks at his maps and documents anyway — but he knows them all by heart.

He's been trying to quit smoking since he got back from America. Trying and failing. But if there's ever a time for one, it's now; he goes out onto the little balcony that looks over the trim garden. Summer isn't even over but the closest tree is starting to turn, already scattering floppy yellow leaves across the wobbly little round table and the tile. There isn't a chair, so he stands, lighting his cigarette and looking up to the sky as he smokes it, trying not to think about anything much at all.

"Is this a bad time?"

Jon nearly jumps over the railing in startlement, but catches himself, and manages not to drop his half-finished cigarette to boot. "I— Helen." Surprise turns into grim annoyance. "I thought I told you to leave me alone."

"You did," they say. "It hurt my feelings." As though they have feelings. They move further out onto the balcony, but carefully, slowly. "It's just, you might die."

Jon stares at them. Helen Richardson's face with who knows what lurking behind it. Michael? The Spiral? He doesn't really understand anymore, and he doesn't want to understand, certain that the more he learns about this creature of static and twisting corridors, the more he'll have to learn about his own nature.

Jon smokes his cigarette, his jaw tight and unhappy. 

"Could you light me one?" Helen asks.

"You smoke?" Jon asks, compulsion despite himself, just because he's startled by the incongruity. 

Like Elias, they seem to register it, shiver-smirk a little. "I used to," they respond. "Now... well, let's find out."

Sometimes an I don't know is a satisfactory enough answer, and the owl-like light in Jon's eyes settles. But in the name of discovery and research and all that, he lights a second cigarette. When he passes it to them, they touch him, a brush of a sharp edge that doesn't quite meet his skin but probably shaves some fine hair on the back of a finger, enough to give him a prickle of danger. 

"Smoking with a monster," he says wryly.

"Two monsters smoking together," they respond, a little snippily. Jon immediately puffs up with defensive irritation, annoyed at that and annoyed at them and annoyed he let his guard down for even a moment.

"Why are you here," he says sharply, static in every distinct syllable.

"Because..." they seem to be thinking about it, cigarette perched between their fingers forgotten. "There's a chance I may not see you again. Or I may not know you again, if you fail. And that..." they chuckle, nervous and confused, "That distresses me." They look at him. "I am endlessly drawn to you, Archivist."

Something about the cadence reminds him of Michael. Jon rubs a hand over his face, tired. They're right, that this could be his last night. But he's been working for the last year or so under the tense assumption that any given night could be his last.

"Right," he says wearily.

"When I was Helen," says Helen, "I think I fancied you." _That_ gets her a side-eye, Jon peeking out from behind his fingers. "When I was Michael, I wanted... to take you apart and see what happened. An unusual impulse, but then, I suppose he was Beholding's before he was mine."

They lift the cigarette to their lips. Draw. Exhale. The smoke drifts out in clouds. It all seems very normal. Jon's head hurts. 

"I want to learn what those feelings mean for me. I want to learn who I am now, and what I can do. That's why I'm here, Archivist."

"I don't suppose you could leave me out of it," says Jon.

"I don't suppose I could."

A moment of silence, him watching them, and then Jon puts his cigarette out. "This is ridiculous. For one thing, Tim will be back soon, and you absolutely can't still—"

"Your assistant won't be back this evening," Helen reassures him. "And if I go, what will you do? More pacing, more smoking, more little human worries as you try not to think about death?"

Jon huffs, feeling uncomfortably known. "And what do you suggest if you stay. A rousing game of cards?"

"What a terrible idea," Helen says, amused. "You'd cheat without meaning to. And I'd cheat on purpose, I think. No, you should let me distract you."

Jon looks at her, feeling his face start to heat, though his tone is ice. "With what."

"Pain."

"Right. No thank you." Jon throws up a hand dramatically and storms back inside. "Why is it every bloody monster seems to think that I'm the best possible punching bag."

"Because you like it," says Helen, following him in without seeming to realize he's trying to exit the conversation. "You're practically crying out for it. To be used, and marked. Everyone can hear it, Archivist."

"They can not!" Jon says indignantly. "I- I am not— that's preposterous." Helen hums as Jon splutters. "You're making it sound like some sort of perversion, but I'm not— I don't even—" Jon swallows hard. "I am simply not interested in people like that."

"No?" Helen laughs again. "Michael saw you with Nikola. He knew you hated it as much as you liked it. Hated liking it."

Jon shakes his head. Helen steps closer. "I wouldn't be like her, Archivist. I want to be ... kind to you, like you were kind to me. I don't want you to hate any of it." Their eyes are avid, and despite his hackles being up Jon can't help but wonder just what they have in mind.

He might die in an explosion tomorrow. He might fail and doom the whole useless world to an eternal hellscape of nightmare surrealism. And if that occurs, god, he'll have regrets. So many regrets in his life.

But he will not stand for this to be one of them.

"Very well," he acquiesces. "You can stay the night, and you can touch me. Within reason."

Helen is very close suddenly, their diminutive frame somehow looming, their mouth a slash of pleased teeth. They're laughing and laughing. With joy? With mockery?

"Within reason," they echo, "Oh, that's a good one."

And then they touch him.

It very quickly becomes apparent to Jon, as they neatly shred his clothing, that he may be a little out of his depth in this. If he is a monster, he's a very new and human one, and while Helen seems likewise, her hands are not— her hands are— 

His breathing picks up, and he feels ridiculous and terrified and very alive, as she cuts the first shallow slice in parallel to his collarbone.

It bleeds. Of course it bleeds. He thinks vaguely as she cuts him that he should have put towels down or something, newspaper — or maybe they should be in the bathroom? He's going to lose his deposit on this nice Bed and Breakfast cottage and he isn't going to be able to explain why to Elias in order to get a company refund.

It's ... possible he's becoming a little light-headed.

Two more shallow cuts, each one pulling a hissing hurting little noise from him, and he shakes his head, grabs at where he thinks their wrist is. They twist away, to stop him injuring his fingers, but don't slice him again. "Not what you wanted, Archivist?"

"Not quite," he admits, ragged. "It's too— it's like you're going to peel me."

"Oh, I would never," they say, "That doesn't interest me. But all right. We can do something different. How about —"

And then they sink blades _into_ him, tiny little blades, unevenly spaced, prickling in his soft side, more and deeper low into the back of his thigh, where a human arm wouldn't be able to reach while still standing so upright. Jon chokes out a noise that a listener would find obscene, and it's so lovely but he can't stand it for the same reason, tries to twist away. But Helen knows twisting, seems to be present everywhere and around him, so that no matter where he turns his bare skin finds sharp edges. What parts of them? It doesn't matter. At first he's trying to escape the sensation, but after enough abrasions he wriggles just to feel them score him, his whole body alight. And yes, he's bleeding. And yes, he's alive.

"Does it hurt?" they ask.

Jon pants, ragged. Does it? Does it hurt? This is some other sensation now, neither pain or pleasure, static in his nervous system like the distortion they leave on the tapes. "I," he manages, tone crumpled. "I don't, I'm not sure. It's certainly..."

Indescribable, apparently.

"Voluminous?" tries Helen, madlibs. Which isn't incorrect but still isn't the word he wants — for as much as it's a lot, there's specificity in the chorus of sensations. "Arousing?" they ask, tilting their head.

Jon knows what arousal feels like — he's asexual, not dead — but this isn't it. Perhaps there are sexual overtones to this: they're in him, inside his body, moving in and out, murmuring sweet things, and everything is sticky-wet and entwined. Jon is so aware of his body. Jon is so aware that neither of them, in this moment, are human. But Jon is not aroused. "No," he exhales. "Something else. It's... god, it's good though." Relieving. Ecstatic. If Elias' Watcher's Crown ritual is anything like this he's going to have a hard time refusing it. (Or perhaps that will make it inordinately simpler — Jon often refuses the things he wants the most.)

"I'm so glad," says Helen, bites at his neck and shoulder with too many teeth. Jon is losing his balance, dizzy, but their arms, or what passes for arms, are very strong, and they cradle him close as they take him apart.

When he comes back to himself, they're both on the bed. Helen, still seeming fully dressed, is touching his genitals, just petting with as little sharp as possible, playing with the vulnerable skin. He's half-hard, which seems to interest them. Their other hand(?) is in his hair, scratching over the scalp until it tingles. Jon's skin feels tacky with drying blood, and he can sense a shadow of pain on the horizon as his endorphins fade — but when he looks down at himself, even the deeper wounds they left him with have closed.

"That was very stupid," he tells himself, and Helen looks up from rolling his balls on knifepoints and leaves him alone down there. 

"You're awake. Good. I thought perhaps I'd broken you."

"It takes more than that to break me," Jon admits — he has the scars to prove it. His throat is a rasp. Did he scream? At one point, did he scream for them? It's a blur. "Don't suppose you can get me some water." He hates to ask anything of anybody but his legs don't currently work.

Helen seems amused by the request, which is at least better than affronted, and slips off the bed to get him something to drink, a damp towel. Human necessities. Jon doesn't think Michael would have understood the need of them, but there is still something of Helen Richardson close enough to the surface. 

Maybe that too is why they curl up with him, wrapping them both up in the blankets, bringing him in to spoon against where their breast seems to be. Jon isn't sure anymore, what's holding him, but it makes calming hushing noises and affects sweet kisses and is surprisingly, pleasantly warm against his chilled skin. Helen combs out his hair strand by strand, and Jon dozes until the last of subspace has well and truly worn off and there's nothing left to do but face the music. 

Quite literally, as it turns out.


	6. Peter Lukas.

When Jon opens his eyes, Peter Lukas is sitting by his hospital bed, sat up straight with naval precision, and watching him with a cold, bright gaze, an affect like a muffled endless field of fallen snow. Jon doesn't know him, but finds he Knows him, remembered statements of the Lukas family mixing with understanding that Peter has been working for the Institute.

"Good morning, sunshine," he says cheerfully. Jon unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth and swallows— 

The taste floods his mouth, registering seconds after he's already let the whole mouthful slide down his throat. Salty-bleach astringency, foreign and sticky-thick, more like phlegm than saliva, and horror dawns visibly over his face, cheeks going high crimson, two bright-slapped splashes of heat in his corpselike face.

"You," he croaks. "That. _What was that._ "

Peter's eyes lid. "Come on now, Archivist, surely you already know the answer to that!" He's smirking, even as the response is dragged viscerally out of him. "I opened up your sleeping mouth and wanked into it. Did quite a bit more than that, if I'm being honest — there's something so very appealing when the lights are on but nobody's home. And I wanted to see you swallow my come. Did you like it? There's certainly more where that came from."

It's the worst statement Jon has ever compelled. "I absolutely and unequivocally did not," he grits out.

His body feels strange, separate from himself and not quite comfortable, an ill-fitting suit, and it's hard to say how much of that is from the Unknowing and how much is genuine injury and how much is whatever Peter did. But he still feels defiled, flushed to be tasting another man's come, to have been used while he lay there unable to do anything about it.

But on the other hand, really, what's new.

He's sort of resigned to it when Peter gets up and leans over his bed, one hand on the pillow. "We're going to be working very closely together, Archivist," he breathes, eyes bright as coins places on a corpse. "And Elias promised me absolutely free reign in getting you ship-shape. That was part of the deal, you see." 

Jon is about to compel him for the details of this apparent deal, but Peter forestalls him. He dips and kisses Jon — for a certain definition of kissing. When he pulls away Jon's lip is bleeding sluggishly, dark blood smearing Peter's mouth.

"Oh, so your heart is beating, then! Good to know. Should probably let you get back; the doctors will be be delighted. A medical miracle." He winks at Jon, and then brusquely smooths all his covers down, neatening him up, stepping back. And even as he fades into unimportance a nurse bursts in the door, apparently only now registering the change in readouts from the machines surrounding Jon's bed. She calls a doctor immediately, another nurse hurrying in, and none of them except Jon seem to see Peter Lukas leave.

**Author's Note:**

> Content Warnings! May contain "spoilers" for the fics.
> 
> 1\. Mr Spider: Dubious consent with implied mind-control. Mr Spider is anthropomorphized with references to his arachnid nature.
> 
> 2\. Jude Perry: Non-sexual mouths touching within a dream. Canon-typical violence. No smut.
> 
> 3\. Nikola Orsinov: Reference to previous non-consensual orgasms and multiple penetration, and future kissing and massage with consent only given under duress.
> 
> 4\. Gerard Keay: Canon-typical death ideation. Canon Major Character Death.
> 
> 5\. Helen Richardson: Consensual kink including knifeplay/edgeplay/bloodplay. Aftercare.
> 
> 6\. Peter Lukas: Implied non-consensual somnophilia/necrophilia (however you want to classify Jon post-120) and come swallowing.
> 
> Please let me know if I missed a warning.


End file.
